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"'I'd five acres in late barley,' Abel explained. 'Ripe and yellochtie, achin' for the scythe. I couldna leave it to be spoilt, and my Abby—she was a wee, slight woman, she wouldna be scything and threshing.'"—Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (NY: Bantam Dell, 2001), 61